 
The elderly couple took their last little steps off of the bus.  The driver closed the doors behind them, looked left, and turned the wheel sharply.  The bus slipped into the river of blue, green, brown, white, black, and silver cars with utter confidence born of its size.  The little cars might take chances around the bus, cutting it off or slipping around it at a stop, but they never disputed its right and ability to command the space it needed for changing lanes and stopping.  
Sighing quietly to himself, Jack stared at the double doors.  Black rubber, yellow metal handles, two rectangular glass panes.  They looked like a childish, stylized face.  The mouth was made of the two handles, each slanting downwards into a “V”.  The window panes were its eyes.  The doors its… Jack couldn’t stand analyzing the stylized door-face yet again.  He studied the face, something a kindergartener would draw, every day.  Closing his eyes, he tried to sink down into himself, to find the relaxing immortal center where he could let the overwhelming sensations of the world melt away.
As he did so, he felt a grinding in his midriff.  His stomach seemed to be gnawing on itself.  Satisfied, Jack figured this was what was upsetting him and resolved to buy something before walking home.  Money was tight, and he had planned on going without food for the walk, but he’d make up for it by eating cheap soup during the weekend.  Opening his eyes, the door handle smile seemed beneficent and kind.  
As the bus rumbled down the road, and the world swam by in a river of motion, Jack unfocused his eyes and let his mind and existence attenuate to each other.  As existence careened around his face, he let his eyes relax and take in everything before him: the smiling doors, the interior of the bus, the floating heads, and the river of movement beyond the windows.  Sensation seemed to burn, orange warm, around the sharp edges of his sight.  Skin cold, body warm, he breathed slowly, peacefully and watched the world pass by.


	Jack sat and stared at the fuzzy, grey wall.  Reaching out he took the fluffy surface between his thumb and forefinger and tore away some of the kinked, plastic threads.  Staring at them, as if through complete visualization comprehension could be perfected, and if comprehension was perfected then acceptance of the basis of his existence could be achieved, Jack felt upset.  Jack could not explain the foundation of his anger, though he knew intuitively and abstractly that it stemmed from dissatisfaction with his work.  Unhappy, Jack dropped the threads on the floor, which was exactly the same as the wall but brown.  
As he sat staring at the walls of the cubicle he tried to move his contemplations towards a reality of peace.  Jack fleetingly wished he had decorations in his space, though he knew they would not help his mood or his work. 